


The Start of Things

by Eligh



Series: The Survivors [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When negotiations on a planet turn sour, Jim and Spock are forced to confront their feelings for one another. </p><p>Prequel to The Survivors, but you don't need to read that to understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Start of Things

**Author's Note:**

> The actual first in a series of planned tie-ins in the Survivors 'verse. This was a requested fic by Kim, I believe? Sorry it took so long for me to get writing this 'verse again :)

Spock was… stressed.

He did not like the ub’GX’inites, and if he could have his way, he and the crew of the _Enterprise_ would have left orbit the moment these peoples’ true character had shown through. They were violent and impulsive, considered death by battle honorable, were sexist, racist, close-minded—in other words, everything Spock considered antithetical to productive negotiations.  

And had their planet not been the only known source of Gallicite, he was positive his views would have been mirrored amongst the admiralty. But with the loss of Vulcan, this mineral had become precious. It was used in the manufacture of more efficient warp drives—logically, it made sense to cultivate relations with a species that could supply mass quantities of the material.

However, it did not mean that Spock had to like it.

He, Jim, Nyota, and three security guards had been planetside for a week, and despite Spock’s intimate knowledge of stressful situations, he felt that this particular week had perhaps been one of the most major factors in producing atypical physical signifiers of aging in all six of them.

They were constantly on the defensive, as any perceived minor infractions of honor could be seen as a direct slight. And when direct slights were settled with physical combat with a species that averaged three point five standard meters in height, these minor infractions must be avoided at all costs.

But it had been a solid _week,_ and they were all on edge. It did not help that Spock and Jim had been subjugated to a tongue-lashing the night prior, with Komack firmly (and undeservedly, Spock thought) berating them for not progressing negotiations at a more brisk pace.

When Spock had pointed out that they were simply following the lead of the ub’GX’inite people, Komack had threatened (hollowly, but aggravatingly nonetheless) to reassign the duty to a command team more capable. After, Jim had given him a tight, tired smile, and Spock had practically bit his tongue as to not show emotion in his efforts to reassure the captain.

(He was well aware of the bouts of low self esteem Jim suffered, and every time Komack (Jim’s greatest critic) made allusion to the fact that Jim had been appointed to his position wrongly, Spock found himself improperly resorting to emotional strategies to comfort his friend. This desire to protect was only getting stronger as the years went on and Spock became more and more familiar with the brilliance lurking in Jim’s chaotic mind.)

And then there had been the events of today. It had started as usual with the almost painful adherence to traditions—a religious service, today—that they were not privy to, yet were expected to perform faultlessly. Of course the ub’GX’inites had not provided them with detailed expectations of societal behaviors, so the six members of the away team were constantly worried that they may inadvertently offend someone.

The service had lasted almost the whole day, until sunset, at which point they were escorted to a diplomatic dinner where they’d been honored with (read: subjugated to) a meal. Spock and Cath’ril (an Ensign who was, like Spock, a vegetarian) had been forced to eat the ‘meal,’ (a soup of wriggling live fish, combined with unrecognizable somethings that may have been vegetables) with everyone else—she had very nearly thrown up, and Spock was barely able maintain bodily controls strict enough to force it down.

(He had pointedly not noticed the looks of ‘I’m so sorry’ Jim was shooting him, though he did feel an inappropriate warmth in his side when he realized his captain’s fury on his behalf.)

But the dinner was now over and they were milling in a cramped hall, making small talk in an effort to progress the talks in an informal setting. But like everything else on the planet GX, this ‘informal setting’ was painfully rigid and tense.

Spock took a breath and looked around the hall. They only had perhaps another hour of the evening before they would be allowed to retire to their rooms, which was quite fortunate. Every member of the _Enterprise_ ’s party looked tired, overly stressed, and rumpled. Cath’ril still looked vaguely green around the edges, Jones and Brady were shaking slightly as they stood at attention on either side of himself and Nyota, who were seated uncomfortably in chairs not designed for humanoid races. Even Jim, who was speaking in low tones with the ub’GX’inite king, was showing signs of wear underneath his usual blinding smile. Spock did not blame him.

The king’s tentacled appendages were writhing in a manner that could only be described as menacing, though to Jim’s credit, he was standing his ground with his arms crossed and a tight, polite smile on his face. Spock resisted the urge to go to Jim’s aid—Jim needed to appear competent and in control at all times, and Spock approaching him would only undermine authority.

So instead, Spock let his eyes drift across the room, settling on perhaps the worst issue of the entire week.

Her name was Mareyki, and she was the ub’GX’inite ambassador’s third wife. She was young and bubbly—it had been explained to Spock that she was an ideal wife—but her actions toward the landing party had escalated over the past week and were now ranging into dangerous.

Yesterday, the ambassador’s first wife had told Spock and Nyota that Mareyki was newly married to their husband and had never experienced political dealings before. To Spock, this meant that she was not fully invested in her new husband’s public standing, and as a result, she was showing inappropriate interest in all the members of the landing party. All of them, but specifically, Jim.

So Spock watched her from across the room as she watched Jim. Her smile was dazzling, her smooth purple skin glowing, her tentacles appealing—perhaps he would not be as worried if Jim had not made his ‘type’ perfectly clear over the last few years. ( _Not that he has engaged intimately recently_ , a slightly traitorous and hopeful voice said in his head. Spock dismissed the thought swiftly.)

Of course, Jim was fully aware of the necessities of the talks and would not consciously encourage her—but even so, that may not matter. If the ambassador became too displeased with his wife’s actions, he may shift the blame to Jim’s head, which would undoubtedly result in one of the confrontations the away party had been so studiously avoiding.

Near the king’s dais, movement drew Spock’s attention—Jim was bowing deeply, taking care to bare the back of his neck—it was a perfectly executed display of trust, and Spock registered the flicker of approval across the king’s face as he dismissed Jim.

Spock stood, intending to intercept his captain before anyone else could claim his time, but suddenly the ambassador’s wife was crossing the room, her bangles clinking gently around her ankles. Spock’s mouth dropped open slightly as he realized her intent (surely even _she_ would not be so idiotic) simultaneously with her husband, who was now standing as well, his purple face growing darker in fury.

The situation was spiraling quickly out of control. Spock could not reach Jim before the ambassador’s wife (though he tried, quickly striding the length of the room) and he watched, unable to stop the wreck that was clearly about to happen.

The woman reached Jim and laid a delicate hand on his arm. Spock’s breath caught and his vision narrowed. She flashed Jim a sunny smile and Spock registered the clatter of cups as the ambassador lurched forward, his tentacles already curling aggressively. Jim, startled and slightly off-center, looked at the woman and twitched the corner of his mouth up before he caught himself and blanked his face. But it had been enough.

“ _Bath’pa_ ,” Spock swore under his breath, and Nyota, who had been following him and watching the scene with a similar look of horror on her face, shot him a shocked look.

“Mareyki, remove your hand,” the ambassador snapped, his voice clear in the quiet room. His wife looked toward him but defiantly did not remove her hand from Jim’s arm. Jim, suddenly realizing what had happened, paled slightly and moved away, shrugging her off, but by this point, it didn’t matter. The ambassador strode up to him, ten feet of purplish slick skin and angry waving tentacles. “Challenge,” he hissed, and Jim shuffled nervously.

“I don’t—”

Spock snapped into full icy diplomatic mode and was at his side a mere moment later. “He does not accept.” Jim shot him a grateful look and Spock slightly raised an eyebrow at the ambassador, radiating Vulcan Calm before bowing low, baring his neck. After an extra second of the submissive gesture, he rose and said, “We apologize with utmost sincerity. However, the captain does not return the misguided affection.” In a moment of inspiration, he added, “He is otherwise claimed.” Jim’s look turned puzzled, and Spock silently begged him to remain silent. It was a white lie that could not be disproved, but may help their case.

“His face showed interest,” the ambassador said, venom dripping from his words. “Do you claim that your captain is a liar? Should we deal with Federations liars?”

“I was being polite in the manner of my species,” Jim said carefully. “I wasn’t aware who touched my arm.” He pointedly did not look at the ambassador’s wife, who was busy being reprimanded through whispers by her sister wives.

“You showed interest after you looked,” the ambassador snapped, his face turning more purple in his anger. He turned to the king, beseeching, and Spock felt a sinking feeling at the inevitability for their situation. The ambassador clearly wanted a confrontation. “Your grace, I issue a Challenge for this filth and he has the gall to refuse!”

The king was silent for a moment, then made a complicated gesture that may have passed for a shrug. “You showed interest,” he told Jim, who opened his mouth to argue, but Spock reached out and grasped his elbow. Startled by the physical contact, Jim froze. The king went on: “The Challenge must be met.”

With a sharp nod, Spock began to walk away, dragging Jim behind him. They would be awarded a few scant minutes to prepare, and he needed to speak with Jim. To—to save Jim. Something. He was aware that his thoughts were slightly muddled, and forcibly smothered the rising panic that Jim may be forced into a physical altercation that he had no hope of winning. Instead, he needed to concentrate on alternatives.

A moment later, the clicking of boots signaled that they were not alone—Nyota fell into step beside them, her face pale. The three security guards were close on her heels, whispering amongst themselves.

“Spock,” Nyota hissed. “They’ll—”

“I am well aware, Lieutenant.” Spock grated out, and tightened his grip possessively on Jim’s elbow, causing the captain to whimper slightly and attempt to bat his hand away. But Spock didn’t release him (he did ease his grip minutely) until all six of them were in the relative safety of their assigned suites.

“I didn’t do anything!” Jim protested immediately when Spock turned to him. “And what the hell, ‘ _otherwise_ _claimed_ ,’ Spock?”

Spock inclined his head. “I agree with your assessment that you are not to blame. And logically if you were otherwise claimed there was a slight chance that your imagined transgression would be forgiven. Clearly that was not the case.

“However,” he continued, “the king has pronounced his judgment, and I can see no other path out of this situation whilst still maintaining a beneficial diplomatic relationship. The Challenge must be met.”

Jim nodded slowly, letting the words sink in, and Nyota paled further. “There has to be something—” she said.

“You know the rules of their diplomacy as well as anyone,” Spock stated. “If there is a loophole, we have no way of locating it.”

“All right,” Jim breathed. “It’s a physical fight, right? But I’ll get weapons, and you’ve seen me fight—I’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, began bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “They’ll be here in a minute to get us, help me warm up.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. This was… unacceptable. He watched Jim begin to ready himself both mentally and physically for 3.2 seconds, during which several thoughts fought for his full attention.

He had known for months that Jim caused him… emotional instability. Had known, if he was being honest, from the second their minds had touched those few years ago, when Jim had comforted him in the stark emptiness of his quarters in the broken _Enterprise_ after Nero… Perhaps even before that, on the bridge, or even in the lecture hall at the Academy… Yes, when Jim was concerned, Spock had learned long ago that logic was not his greatest asset.

Of late, it had grown worse. The sway his captain held over him was bordering on ridiculous; he should not find himself cataloguing each individual variant of Jim’s multitude of facial expressions, yet he did. He should not look forward to their occasional sparring matches or more frequent chess games so eagerly, yet he did. He should not _feel_ for his captain, his friend, yet he did.

However, as far as Spock was aware, Jim was oblivious to the affect he had on his first officer. Spock would prefer to keep it that way.

He could not allow Jim to be harmed. Not in any way. It was an entirely illogical premise; they were the command team of a starship that frequently engaged in dangerous, high-risk missions. But if Spock could help it, nothing would harm Jim ever again.

So: “You will not be fighting, Captain.”

Blue eyes flicked to meet his, incredulity quickly morphing to annoyance, but Spock held his ground. “It will be no contest—you cannot fight the ambassador. He has nearly twice your body mass.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I have to fight him,” Jim said shortly, still bouncing. Spock shook his head.

“You may choose a champion. I submit myself.”

“Boys—” Nyota tried, desperate. “We could just beam away.”

“The negotiations—”

“Hell no—”

Spock and Jim glared at one another for a moment. Or rather, Jim glared and Spock did his best to remain impassive. In the effort to prevent harm to his captain, this choice of actions became the most logical option. And if Jim was allowed to engage in a confrontation with an ub’GX’inite, he surely would be harmed. One hundred percent probability.

“I don’t believe in—”

“No-win scenarios,” Spock completed for him, dry. “I am aware. However, the likelihood of you surviving this confrontation is two hundred forty six to one. This is merely _surviving_ , Captain. The odds of you escaping unscathed are so minute they approach a statistical impossibility.” He paused, then added, “And contrary to your previous statement, you will not be afforded the use of weapons.”

“Fuck me,” Jim muttered, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Well, there’s no other option. You’re not fighting in my place, Spock.”

“My odds of success are significantly higher,” Spock offered, quickly calculating, taking into account his body mass as opposed to the ub’GX’inites, his strength and agility… Thirty four point eight percent chance of survival. That number would be unacceptable to Jim. Thirty four point eight was almost thirty five, which was almost forty, which was almost fifty.

“I have a close to fifty percent chance of success,” he said, wincing slightly as the lie left his lips. Jim’s eyes narrowed.

“Bullshit.”

“I assure you—”

“You’re fucking _lying_ , Spock. I know your looks—that little statistic? _Hurt_ you to say.”

“Captain, Spock—” Nyota said desperately. “We need to beam up. Screw the negotiations, we can’t afford to lose either of you.” They both turned to her, surprised. She flicked her ponytail and crossed her arms. “These people are terrible. They _want_ to fight. We need to get the hell out while we’re all still alive.”

Spock blinked, thinking. “I agree.”

Jim gaped at him for a moment, and Spock came to a decision. The ub’GX’inites would not look past the dishonor of a sudden beam out. Negotiations would be ruined for years, if not for good. But both Jim and Nyota would not allow any sacrifices amongst the away team. There was no other option.

He stepped forward, resting his hands on both Jim and Nyota’s shoulders. Jim smiled slightly at him, clearly thinking he had won, but Nyota’s eyes widened.

“You fucker—” she got out before Spock nerve-pinched them simultaneously. They crumpled to the ground and Spock turned to the security team, who were all watching him with looks of utter shock.

“Jones and Cath’ril, please take the captain and lieutenant back to the _Enterprise_. Brady, stay with me.”

“Commander!” Ensign Jones shouted. “You just—”

“I am well aware of my actions,” Spock said, raising his eyebrow. “We cannot allow negotiations to sour. It is my duty to protect the captain. This is the only option.” He flicked open his communicator. “Spock to _Enterprise._ Four to beam up. Brady and I will remain on the planet.”

The same moment the swirls of white faded, taking Jim and Nyota to safety, the door to their rooms crashed open. Spock turned to the guards who had been sent to fetch them, utterly calm.

“I will fight in Captain Kirk’s place.”

(‘’)

Jim woke up to the blinding lights of the medbay.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he breathed, and shot up, swinging his legs over the side of the biobed and shoving past Bones, who was trying to argue with him.

“Goddamned hobgoblin—”

“Fucking nerve-pinched me, I _know_ ,” Jim snapped, his head throbbing, stomach roiling—he’d forgotten how horrible that pinch made him feel. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Still on the planet,” came a groggy voice from one of the other beds. Jim looked over; if it was possible, Uhura looked worse off than he did, her skin shockingly pale, bags under her eyes. “He’s going to fight in your place.”

“Like fuck he is,” Jim snapped, and shouldered past Bones, who executed a smooth movement and still managed to shoot a hypo directly into his carotid. “Asshole,” Jim mumbled, rubbing his neck, but didn’t slow his pace even slightly as he jogged in the direction of the transporter room. Behind him, Bones grabbed a portable medkit and followed at a run.

“Dirt-side, now,” Jim ordered immediately upon reaching the transporter. The ensign manning the controls looked a tad shocked, and yea, Jim didn’t blame her—he probably looked a little manic. But she did as he asked, jumping up and manning the controls deftly. Jim glanced at Bones as their molecules started to separate. “Keep your eyes open and your phaser on stun,” he said. “Number one priority is—”

The white descended, and when it retreated, it was accompanied by the low roar of a crowd. “—Spock,” Jim breathed. “Oh, no.” He took off again, with Bones on his heels, weaving through the palace toward the challenge grounds, an open field they’d been shown on the first day.

Jim was vaguely aware that he was chanting _nonono_ under his breath as he ran because seriously, fuck. Spock. and his stupid self-sacrificial shit. It was like he didn’t realize how goddamn much he meant to Jim, willing to throw his life away for a fucking treaty with the most unpleasant species Jim had ever met, like he didn’t realize that Jim was utterly lost without him, would freaking _die_ —

He and Bones skidded to a halt at the edge of the field just in time to see Spock shoved unceremoniously into the center of the patch of grass. He was wearing loose black pants and little else—a black bandana-type swatch of cloth circled his head, and one of his arms was covered in a light shield.  Both hands were wrapped in thin black gloves, likely a deference to his telepathic abilities. At the other end of the field, the Ambassador stepped out, similarly clothed; but while Spock’s face was set, familiarly blank, the Ambassador was grinning widely.

“Sir—” Jim turned to find a panting Brady. “Sir, I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it, you were following orders,” Jim mumbled, then took a step forward, intending to stalk onto that field and stop the fucking fight before it could even get started, but Bones and Brady simultaneous snatched at his arms—just in time, too, as a forcefield suddenly erupted up out of the ground, cutting Spock and the Ambassador off from the rest of the roaring crowd.

“No,” Jim practically sobbed out. Bones stepped up next to him, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll be…” Bones trailed off, eyeing the size difference between Spock and the Ambassador. “…fine?” Beside him, Jim chewed his lip for a moment, then whipped his comm out. A few moments of yelling at Scotty later, they were no closer to getting Spock out of there—forcefields weren’t transporter-friendly.

“Keep in contact with the ship,” he ordered Brady, who nodded once and pulled out his own comm, immediately setting to work arguing with Scotty. His voice faded into the background and Jim redirected his attention to the field, where Spock was standing stock still, watching the ambassador with an expression that could only be described as wary.

There was a resounding gong and on the field, the Ambassador stepped forward, his grin growing more unhinged. Spock’s face blanked until he was regarding him coolly, and Jim turned to Bones, desperate.

“We have to get him out.”

Bones shrugged, miserable. “I can’t think how…”

Jim scowled, his eyes flicking back to the events on the field. The Ambassador was advancing now, eyeing Spock’s loose stance. Hope flashed through Jim’s mind for a moment—he’d seen Spock fight. He may look like he wasn’t much of a threat, but there was power behind his thin frame, almost surprising amounts of power. It was clear that the Ambassador wasn’t well versed in Vulcan physiology—he’d never approach him head on if he was—and as Spock crouched slightly, almost insignificantly lowering his center of gravity, Jim could almost see this working.

Then the Ambassador moved, whip-fast, his lateral tentacles writhing toward Spock, expanding, stretching. Spock avoided them with a quick spin, backing up slightly before using the forcefield behind him for momentum in an upward arc with two closed fists that landed squarely in the center of the Ambassador’s chest. The Ambassador reeled backward, and the crowd gasped.

“Ye—” Jim’s victorious exhalation cut off when the Ambassador snapped back, his tentacles moving in a blur. Spock wasn’t able to avoid them as easily this time, and one scored a vicious jab along his ribs. He doubled over for a moment, his hand fluttering against his side—

“His heart’s on the other side,” Bones muttered. “S’okay.”

—and was gone, again using the forcefield to bank off, rolling under the gelatinous legs of the Ambassador, headed for the other side of the field. Jim, Bones, and Brady immediately followed his direction, pushing through the roaring crowd. Jim tried not to think about how if he’d been the one in this fight, odds were he’d be down already—he didn’t think he could’ve pulled the move Spock just had to get away.

Jim stumbled to a stop at the other end of the field, realizing belatedly that they were now standing perhaps ten feet from the King’s dais. He bowed hastily and approached him.

“Honored—”

“Captain,” the king growled. “What an _honor_ that you have decided to rejoin us for the Challenge, and have accepted the legality of the fight, according to our people. Truly you have a mind for diplomacy.” The look he gave Jim, however, spoke volumes about what he actually thought of Jim’s diplomatic skills and through the sudden haze of red fury, Jim realized that he fucking. _hated_. these people. There was nothing here that was worth Spock dying.

“I—” Jim opened his mouth to protest, then in a moment of clarity, thought about what might happen if he chose the course that was _dis_ honorable. He couldn’t be much help to Spock right now if he got himself shot or stabbed, and as much as he hated it, he wasn’t in the position of power, here. So he snapped his mouth shut and turned to concentrate on the fight. Bones was watching, his fingers pressed lightly against the forcefield. Brady was keeping a quiet running commentary with whomever he was talking to on the ship—probably Scotty or Uhura.

“He’s tiring,” Bones muttered, and Jim paled.

Sure enough, on the field, Spock’s breathing was getting noticeably heavier. He had a bruise rising starkly against his paler-than-usual cheek, and Jim could see that most of his moves were drifting toward defensive. This was bad.

The ambassador was hanging back, watching, waiting for an easy opening, when that low, resounding gong sounded again. The forcefield dropped with a buzz and Jim just barely stopped himself from darting into the clearing. Instead, he watched as two ub’GX’inites stepped out, guiding Spock to the sidelines, where they handed him a chalice of something to drink.

Jim was just making up his mind to force himself through the crowd to where Spock was kneeling when the gong sounded once again. Spock was shoved away from the sidelines, and faster than Jim could react, the forcefield was up again.

As Spock walked (limping, Jim noticed) to what appeared to be marked starting spots, his eyes flicked over the crowd. He clearly spotted Jim and Bones, his eyebrows furrowing into a more severe than usual V, and Jim pressed against the forcefield, mouthed, ‘be careful.’

Spock nodded once, sharply, and turned to face the ambassador.

The ambassador said something Jim couldn’t make out—either because the crowd had ramped up their noise or because the forcefield was sound-proofed, and Spock’s face smoothed out in a familiar ‘fuck you’ gaze that Jim was intimately familiar with. Not that he’d been seeing it much lately, but it was a look of such derision that it was impossible to miss.

Next to him, Bones mumbled something under his breath, then turned to Jim. “Somethin’s wrong.”

“What about this situation isn’t?” Jim snapped, his eyes not leaving Spock, cataloguing how he was favoring his left leg, how the arm with the light shield was hanging slightly.

“No,” Bones said. “Something more. The ambassador’s got something wrapped up in one of those tentacles. I saw it glint.”

Jim turned toward him, horrorstruck, at exactly the same moment the ambassador lunged forward, launching himself at Spock with a whirr of limbs, jabbing, hitting, landing too many hits—Spock couldn’t move, couldn’t—

“Stop it,” Jim cried, turning to the king, all thoughts of diplomacy forgotten. “It’s not—he’s going to kill him, please.” The king turned to him, orange eyes incredulous, and hot white anger lanced through Jim’s core.

“No,” Jim snapped. “We’re done here. No more of your fucking games. We’ve done everything you’ve asked of us and my first officer is being _slaughtered_ out there because of your power-hungry, insecure, asshole excuse for an ambassador can’t control one of his wives, which also! Is abhorrent, by the way—the way you treat your females—and so we are done. The Federation officially withdraws any offered treaties. I _order_ you to halt this mockery of justice and release us.” He crossed his arms. “And if you don’t fucking like it, I’ll have my ship up there in orbit vaporize your whole fucking city.”

“Jim—” Bones hissed, and Jim waved him off, glaring full-force at the king.

Who started laughing. And then he leaned over and said something to one of his aides, who then scurried off. A moment later, that gong sounded again and the forcefield dropped. Only then did Jim let himself look back over toward Spock, and oh…

Spock was lying on the ground, and after a short, painful, terrified second, Jim saw that he was breathing shallowly. The ambassador was screaming at someone who appeared to be something like a referee, and Jim felt a surge of relief. He took a step forward, and several things happened at once.

—The ambassador shoved the referee and spun, advancing on Spock, who was shakily trying to push himself away, but it was clear that he couldn’t stand.

—“Jim,” Bones shouted. “It’s a knife, Jim…”

—Jim pulled his communicator from his pocket and shouted, “Four to beam up!” but it was too late, too late because—

The ambassador reached down, his tentacles tightening brutally around Spock’s ribs. Spock hung mostly limp, ineffectively lashing out weakly at what little of the ambassador he could reach. There was a glint of reflected sunlight shining off something in the ambassador’s hand and then Spock’s face contorted in agony.

“No!” Jim shouted, and the ambassador raised the knife (the glint less, now that it was smeared with green) again, bringing it down repeatedly five more times before flinging Spock across the field, easily launching him over twenty feet. And then Jim couldn’t see anything because he was dissolving, the buzz that came with the transporter filling his ears.

The next thing he knew, he was standing on the transporter pad and Bones was pushing him aside and green blood was pouring out of  jagged gashes in Spock’s side and Jim could see Spock’s eyes staring up at the ceiling, blank and sightless, and a red haze of fury descended.

“Bones,” he snapped. “Fix him. If he dies, you’re court-martialed. Security, I need fifty people to meet me in docking bay five.”

“Jim—” Bones started, and Jim shook his head.

“No, Doctor. I am sick of this fucking planet. I think it’s time they listened to us for a change.”

(‘’)

Spock woke in the medbay, and found he could not move his limbs. Instead, he rolled his head to the side, only to be greeted with a fuming Doctor McCoy, and as that was not a particularly desirable image, he again closed his eyes.

Of course, this avoidance would not be tolerated; a moment later there was a sharp press of a hypo against his skin and he again opened his eyes.

The moment he was able to successfully flex and raise his hand, McCoy wordlessly handed him his chart, then spun on his heel and left. And yes, the situation must have been dire—Spock could not recall a previous time when McCoy had forgone a lecture. He looked down, taking in the full extent of his injuries, laid out in stark type on the PADD.

Multiple stab wounds, the worst grazing his heart. He fluttered a hand to his side and encountered a bandage—apparently that wound had been severe enough that a dermal regenerator had not been sufficient to heal it. Other than that, he had suffered superficial lacerations, a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, tearing of tendons in his legs, teeth knocked out.

He looked up, aware now that McCoy was hovering, and handed back his file. “Where is Jim?” he asked, and McCoy scowled.

“On the bridge.”

Spock swallowed. Jim was alive, that was… good. “The negotiations?”

McCoy’s eyes narrowed, and he scowled harder. “Negotiated.”

“I—”

“You,” McCoy exploded, “almost _died_ because if your stupid-ass death wish when it comes to Jimmy and yea, maybe you couldn’t think of any other way to save him or whatever, but do you have _any_ idea what I’ve gone through in the past coupla days? Your heart stopped _twice_ on my fucking table, _Commander_ , and Jim just about had a heart attack of his own, you, you idiotic, selfish, alien asshole! And you’ll deserve it when he fucking court-marshals you!”  

Spock blinked and let McCoy catch his breath before asking, “How long have you kept me sedated?”

“Argh!” McCoy threw his hands up in the air and stalked away.

(‘’)

Spock was confined to the medbay for another three days, during which McCoy studiously ignored him, instead sending Nurse Chapel to see to his injuries and tests. Nyota once appeared, but only to soundly berate him.

He learned that immediately after initiating emergency transport, Jim gathered a large security force and essentially stormed the palace. He demanded that the ambassador be brought up on charges and that if that could happen, Jim was willing to work with the ub’GX’inites to reach an acceptable agreement. The ambassador was, and impressed with the show of force, the ub’GX’inite king settled for a treaty that would be highly beneficial to the Federation.

Jim also did not visit, though Spock had been assured they were days away from the planet GX.

Finally, however, Spock was released, with a gruff, “Get the hell out my sickbay,” from McCoy and a detailed list of instructions from Chapel. Spock was internally pleased that he had come to know the doctor enough to know that while he _was_ furious with Spock for his obviously self-sacrificial actions, the doctor’s open animosity spoke more of worry than anything else. It was not McCoy’s wrath that worried him, however; it was Jim’s silence.

Back in his quarters, Spock settled himself on his meditation mat and attempted to calm his whirling thoughts. He had overstepped with Jim, was likely to be officially punished, perhaps court-marshaled. And who would blame Jim for choosing that path? After all, Spock had willingly and knowingly placed himself in danger, had lied, had assaulted his superior officer.

Meditation was not working. Spock took a deep breath and let it out, slowly, and tried not panic. He got up, wincing at the pain in his side, and resettled on his small couch, staring off into space and trying to think about what he would do with his life when he was dishonorably discharged.

He was unsure precisely how much time had passed when there was a beep from the direction of his door. Spock watched blankly as the light on the interior lock flashed red once, twice, then turned green. The door slid open to reveal a stony-faced Jim Kirk, and Spock found that he was not the least bit surprised that Jim was able to hack the lock in less than thirty seconds. Several memories of Jim hacking his lock—no matter what new protocols Spock programmed into it—flashed through his mind, and he fought down a surge of affection.

Jim stepped in just far enough for the door to register his entrance and it slid shut behind him. Spock watched him warily from his perch on the couch and told himself that it was the pain from his still bruised ribs that was forcing him to take short, shallow breaths. Jim’s obviously furious demeanor had nothing to do with it.

The silence in Spock’s quarters dragged out long enough that even Spock—master of long, painful silences—was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He inhaled with the intent to ask something (anything) of Jim, when Jim suddenly snapped,

“I should fucking court-martial you.”

Spock tilted his head to concede that yes, this was an option. He then considered for a moment, finally settling on softly saying, “I will, of course, submit willingly to any punishment you choose to be appropriate.”

Jim took a step closer. “You nerve pinched your superior officer and your ship’s communications officer. Your friends.” He glared accusingly at Spock, who suppressed a wince. That was only the second time he had ever used that method of restraint on Jim. Somehow he felt that this instance was worse—it was one thing to subdue a mutinous stowaway; it was entirely another issue to do the same to your captain and friend.

He decided to stress that the pinch had been performed with a thought of protection. “It was used in effort to protect my captain.” Spock lifted his chin defiantly and fixed Jim with a more determined than usual stare. “Who surely would have expired had events been left to unfold in the manner they were proceeding.”

“You _blatantly_ lied to your superior officer.”  Jim said, frighteningly calm, ignoring Spock’s previous statement. He took another step closer, was almost on top of Spock at this point.

“I…” Spock faltered. He _had_ lied, and with remarkably little regard or thought to just what that meant. “I maintain that my actions were necessary to protect the commanding officer of the _Enterprise_.”

“You almost _died_ , you idiot!” Jim suddenly shouted, leaning forward and grabbing Spock by the shoulders. “He stabbed you in the heart, you self-sacrificing, green-blooded… _hobgoblin_!” With a half-shove, half-pull, he yanked Spock off the couch and pushed him against the wall. “Do you have no regard for your own safety?”

“My injuries were sustained for the good of the ship,” Spock argued, ignoring the sharp pain of Jim’s actions upon his injuries and forced his voice to remain calm, though the instinct to match Jim’s tone was nearly overwhelming. “The worst of my wounds was merely near my heart—the actual blow missed. And you must realize that had you fought, you _would_ have died.”

Jim stared at him for a long moment, then shoved him ineffectively against the wall again. Spock let himself fall back—if Jim wanted this altercation to become physical, so be it. He had no intention of ever lifting a hand against him, not ever again.

“You can’t—” Jim sucked in a breath and looked down. He was panting, flushed and furious, and Spock had a flash of traitorous thought that was so wildly out of place in this argument that it was almost physically startling. Jim was beautiful. Powerful and beautiful, and though Spock could never have him, could never possess him as he wanted, he would allow the events that had transpired on GX to happen again and again, if only he could keep Jim safe.

“I will.” Spock said, voice soft. “If the ability to protect you is presented to me, I shall always take it.”

“I’ll transfer you,” Jim hissed, still staring at the ground. “You can’t fuck with my life if you’re not in it.”

“You have that power,” Spock conceded. “Though it is the last action I would desire you take.” He had begun to move away from the wall of his quarters, but now Jim stepped forward again, crowding against him, his legs framing Spock’s, his hands coming up to cage him to the wall.

“If you died—” Jim choked out, and Spock slumped slightly.

“Captain, I—”

“Shut up,” Jim snapped. “Just—just shut. _up_.” Spock closed his mouth. Jim gazed blankly down, his eyes unfocused, staring in general vicinity of Spock’s chest. Just when Spock was readying himself to speak again, Jim snapped out of it.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said, and Spock was alarmed to hear the pain in Jim’s voice. “You don’t get to throw yourself in the path of the spear, or take the hits aimed for me, or get stabbed in the fucking. _heart_. for me. I don’t deserve your sacrifice, Spock. You’re fifty times the man I could ever be, and there is nothing in the universe that is worth that kind of sacrifice.”

Spock blinked, feeling the anger pooling hot and hard in his chest. He knew he wouldn’t let it fade, couldn’t—not with Jim so close and so damn oblivious. Before he knew exactly what he was doing, he pushed Jim back slightly.

“Regardless of your personal misconceptions,” Spock spat, and Jim’s eyes widened, “I must inform you that I will repeat my actions. I will always sacrifice myself for you. You are _Captain_. You are a good man, my _friend_. You are—” he broke off and looked away. “You are too important.”

“You fucking _idiot_ ,” Jim snapped. “Don’t you _get_ it? I can’t lose you, _you’re_ the one who’s too important, Spock, you—” and Jim was staring at him, desperate and furious and it was too much. Spock tried to get away, moved to duck away from the temptation that was his friend and captain, but Jim grabbed his arm roughly and slammed him back against the wall.

And then he leaned forward and kissed him.

Spock froze, shocked, and Jim’s mouth moved against his, the pressure too much and just on the wrong side of painful. Jim’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulled him closer, and Spock sucked in a breath—this could not be happening, this _something_ that he had wanted for so long.

With a quiet moan, Spock lifted his arms and wrapped them around Jim’s back, tilted his head, and began to kiss back. But then Jim pulled away, his eyes sharp. Confused, Spock breathed in, his throat hitching, and Jim shook his head slightly. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Jim—”

Jim just shook his head again, then grabbed one of Spock’s hands and pressed it against his face. “Look. Look at why I can’t fucking lose you.”

Spock did.

Some time later, he blinked back to himself, slowly drawing his fingers away from Jim’s face. He swallowed, felt Jim’s arms tighten around him.

“Do you understand?” Jim whispered, and Spock nodded dumbly. Jim watched his face, then asked, “Is that—are we?”

“Yes,” Spock murmured, almost catching his breath, and Jim promptly leaned forward and snatched it away again.

Jim’s hands were searing hot as they slid up under Spock’s black undershirt—he hadn’t bothered dressing in his uniform upon leaving the medbay, and was now grateful for the one less barrier of clothing between them. He felt Jim tense when he encountered the bandage that wrapped around his chest and pressed harder against him, distracting with kisses and guiding Jim’s mouth back to his own.

“Bed,” Jim ordered, and Spock gladly followed this directive, letting Jim guide him, half-pulling, half-pushing him away from the wall and down onto his narrow bed. Jim was taking the initiative, yanking off Spock’s pants and undershirt first, then shedding his own.

They had a moment of stillness and silence when they stared at one another fully for the first time—they’d seen each other naked before, of course. The ship’s locker room was relatively small and they often exercised together. But it had never been like this, never with Jim poised over him, his humanness accentuated in the pink flush on his cheeks and chest, the unashamed way he looped his fist loosely over his growing erection.

This was real, so very real and Spock could barely believe it; his arousal was pounding in his ears, making it impossible to think. He relaxed his bodily controls and let his erection unsheathe, watched through half-closed eyes as Jim took his alien anatomy in stride—in fact, Jim just smiled to himself and then leaned down.  

There was sudden heat and suction; Jim made a surprised noise and his head bobbed back up into Spock’s line of sight. “Your dick is sweet.”

“Natural, lubricant,” Spock grated out. “Please continue.”

And then Jim was grinning filthily at him and ducking down again, closing his lips around Spock and sucking, running his tongue in all manner of dexterous ways over his ridges and down his shaft and Spock was entirely unable to stop himself from thrusting shallowly into Jim’s mouth. But at the moment he started moving, Jim stopped all action, pulling back so Spock’s dick was barely brushing his lips.

“Please,” Spock cried out, broken and needing. Jim shook his head.

“Now I know that this is probably kinda mean, but I want to really drive my point home.” He licked once up Spock’s dick, from the root to the tip, and swirled his tongue for a split second against his slit before pulling away again. “No more putting yourself in harm’s way for me.”

Spock pushed himself up to his elbows, incredulous. “Is this the moment—”

“Good as any other. And I have to punish your insubordination somehow.” Jim’s grin was now positively feral, and Spock could not resist raising his eyebrow. “This is better than a court-martial, don’t you think?” Jim purred.

Spock considered, growing serious for a moment, then bent down and dragged Jim up the bed, rolling them so he was on top. “Jim,” he murmured, and leaned down slightly, kissing along the line of Jim’s neck and down his collarbone, “I cannot promise what you are asking of me.”

Jim was quiet and stilled underneath him, and when Spock pulled away to look him in the eyes, they were wide and worried. “I can’t—”

Spock nodded. “Nor can I. In this case, I believe we must simply promise to protect one another to the best of our abilities.” After a moment, Jim nodded, unsure. Spock tilted his head up with a gentle finger, brought their lips together, and attempted to reassure him.

They moved slowly together, Jim generally giving deference to Spock’s bruised ribs and wounded side. They explored each other with rapt fascination, touching how they’d never dared to before. Jim concentrated solely on Spock’s ears for long moments, tracing the graceful points with what appeared to be awe, while Spock inspected his foreign, near-hairless chest, tasting each quadrant of skin with equal care.

Eventually it became too much for either of them. Jim came shuddering, pressing against Spock’s hip, blindly reaching for Spock and pumping his hand for a few short strokes before he was finishing as well. And then they were lying together, slick and breathless, their sweat and release cooling between them.

Spock threaded his fingers through Jim’s hair and Jim pushed into his touch, nuzzling against his neck. The silence stretched out, comfortable.

“This is going to be good,” Jim said suddenly. “We should have started fucking a long time ago.”

Spock very nearly curled his lip in distaste at Jim’s rather vulgar phrasing—what they had just done he would not consider ‘fucking’—and opened his mouth to say so, but was cut off by Jim, sleepy sounding and happy.

“I love you,” he murmured, “so much.”

Spock looked down, watched as Jim’s breathing began to even out as he slipped toward sleep. “ _Vesht ashau du_ ,” he whispered in response, and kissed Jim’s forehead lightly. 


End file.
